


Dark Entries

by PoppyAlexander



Series: Bleed So Pretty: A Collection of Fight!lock Stories [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Biting, Dark John, Edging, Fight Club - Freeform, Fight Sex, Fighting Kink, Hand Jobs, John doesn't think Sherlock's clever, M/M, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Punching, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Unsafe Sex, kicking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-23
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-26 06:10:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1677674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Third-week-of-the-month flatmate John Watson has waited all month for a rematch with Sherlock Holmes.</p><p>"GONE TO NIGERIA. STAY OUT OF MY ROOM."</p><p>(AU-Fight Club)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dark Entries

**Author's Note:**

  * For [darby](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=darby).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Записки из тёмного дома](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3678984) by [ph_craftlove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ph_craftlove/pseuds/ph_craftlove)
  * Inspired by [Five Times Sherlock And John Met Cute (And One That Was Decidedly Un-cute)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1288150) by [PoppyAlexander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander). 



By 10 a.m. they’d both come three times, and any residual trauma from Sherlock’s head injury would just have to be his own problem. He could recite the alphabet backward and clearly remembered every filthy synonym for “cock” he’d ever learned (most in English); John would have signed him out of hospital based on those alone. And anyway, John had a train to catch.

 On his way out he stopped to talk to the landlady, and she said if Sherlock vouched for him, it was no trouble to her, dear, if he wanted to rent the room upstairs; she couldn’t keep tenants in it anyway, on account of sharing a kitchen and bath with Sherlock. . . was he absolutely sure he wanted to rent it? Anyway, just slip it under her door. Third week of the month? All right, dear, lovely to meet you. I’ll have a key made.

She was tiresome. John hoped not to run into her much.

John had left Sherlock asleep, face-down in his bed with bruised thighs. John pulled the glossy black door shut behind him, pivoted right, headed for the Tube.

*

_The Blog of John H Watson:_

_Back in Berwick. Saw the latest superhero movie on day off. Clinic quiet, the usual snorts and sniffles, a bee sting (patient not allergic but sting between toes giving grief), one sprained wrist referred onward for orthopaedic consult. Thinking of buying one of those tablet computers, for reading on the train._

John’s dismal bed-sit was across the hall from an obvious junkie prostitute; John had ordered noise-canceling headphones and as such was now subscribed to forty-three podcasts and had spent a barely comfortable amount of money downloading music he remembered from his old CD and—oh, yes—cassette collection. He’d fallen asleep during the Marvel film, was woken by an explosion, reached for his gun, left the movie early. The clinic was overrun with allergy sufferers convinced they had the flu six months out of season—these strange mini-epidemics of hypochondria broke out every other month or so and John chalked it up to village life; one got sick, they all got to diagnosing him, then they were all not just sick, but terminal. It was predictable, exhausting, frustrating, and a crashing bore.

_The Blog of John H Watson:_

_Bit of a ‘do in the village this week, with a parade and the schoolkids decorating their bicycles and grannies selling baked goods in the town center to raise money for. . .something. Bought two pies. Treated six cases of food poisoning. Threw pies away._

Berwick-upon-Tweed was just shades of grey and always running in slow-motion, and by the middle of his second week there each month, John felt as if tiny ants were marching under the skin of his arms and legs. His sleep even at the best of times was shoddy; middle of Week Two it got downright surreal. Head down on the desk for an hour instead of lunch; nodding off in front of his laptop by ten. Then an all-night stare at the ceiling while he listened to Joy Division or some American bloke yammering about the cosmos. Once in a while he’d take off the headphones and have a wank listening to the junkie prostitute’s patently fake but enthusiastic fuck-noises. He’d have just as soon thrown his money in a bin and pissed on it as bought those old ladies’ pies, but as he was the village doctor, it was expected of him. John thought being the village doctor was a load of shit.

_The Blog of John H Watson:_

_Clinic exceptionally quiet this week. Bought the tablet computer thing and now am catching up on very important reading such as every James Bond novel ever. Not ashamed of lowbrow tastes. Elderly patient brought a bottle of Macallen as thanks for care of his wife._

In the early part of the third week, John lost a fight when he had to tap out. Enraged, he punched a hole in a wall and sprained his little finger; bending and flexing it sent a lightning-bolt of pain up his arm to his elbow so he did it repeatedly, to remind himself he was real. At one point the junkie prostitute went silent for so long he considered calling the police, but then the stream of men with their hoods up and caps down started showing up again. She must have been on a bender.

As for the gift of the whiskey, didn’t it just _have_ to be fucking Macallen? John started to shake as soon as the old geezer drew it out of its paper bag, and purposely kept hold of the chart and his pen, so the patient’s husband was forced to set it on the desk. John considered pouring it down the toilet, but knew once he’d scented it, he wouldn’t be able to let it go to waste. He smashed the bottle into a smelly skip in the alley behind the clinic, just to be safe. One day at a fucking time.

_The Blog of John H. Watson_

_London. Moved all necessaries from old room to new room. Clinic hopping. Keeping busy._

The clinic was a cascade of drug-seekers and victims of domestics who claimed they fell down some steps. John handed out pamphlets for treatment centers and women’s shelters, prescribed non-narcotic pain meds for the addicts and non-lethal dosages of the good stuff for the battered women, one of the dwindling few groups of people for whom he still felt compassion. Let those blokes who bruised them and broke their bones—women who loved them, the mothers of their children, for fuck’s sake—come down to the club some night and John would show them how a hard man really fought, what it felt like to take a furious beating. And then some.

All his third-week-of-the-month possessions fit in his army rucksack, so moving day took only as long as the tube ride. Mrs Hudson had a key for him as promised, and didn’t walk him up, which was fine with John. He put his shirts in the drawer of the bureau, set his laptop on the end of the bed, and he was moved in.

There was a note stabbed onto Sherlock’s bedroom door with a hunting knife.

GONE TO NIGERIA. STAY OUT OF MY ROOM.

John immediately tried the knob; it was locked. He spent the rest of the day watching horror movies and porn (same difference) on his laptop. He texted a woman he’d slept with a few times; she replied he should please lose her number. Then he texted a bloke he’d slept with more than a few times, who quickly sent back a lewd pic as proof he’d moved on to better (but not bigger) things. John jerked off to it, then deleted it.

That was Sunday gone, anyway.

A few more clinic days spent making referrals and letting homeless fellas grab a nap on a gurney or have a shower while the nurses pursed their lips disapprovingly. At the flat, John perused the bookshelves in the lounge: about a third in foreign languages, a quarter maths and sciences (was Sherlock a chemist?), and the rest a completely bonkers assortment of shit John would never bother to crack the spine on. It was a relief not to have to sleep with the headphones. At one point John imagined the operatic fake orgasms of his Berwick neighbor coming from Mrs Hudson downstairs and laughed until he cried.

Wednesday after work he crashed onto the sofa in the lounge and channel-surfed. Satellite TV, way too many channels, too few of them in English. Doors to the landing closed, but not locked. Heavy footfalls coming up, the knob turning.

“Ah, can I help you?” John stood, hands twitching at his sides.

Haggard looking bloke with three-day stubble and salt-and-pepper hair. Necktie pulled loose, top shirt button undone. He looked positively stunned for exactly one quarter of a second before he recovered.

“I’m. . .” he started, holding his ground, eyes scanning the perimeter of the room, “looking for Sherlock. Is he here?”

John cleared his throat. “You’re?”

The haggard looking bloke pushed his blazer aside to reveal a badge fixed to his belt. “No worries; DI Lestrade, of the Met.”

John nodded. “Mrs Hudson let you in? I didn’t hear the—“

“I have a key.” Lestrade’s face portrayed annoyance. “And who are you, while we’re on the subject?”

“I’m Sherlock’s new flatmate. John Watson.”

Lestrade nodded. He started to move about the place with rather more ease than felt comfortable to John. “So where is he?”

“He’s gone to Nigeria.”

Lestrade’s eyebrows rose. “Ah, Nigeria, is it,” he said flatly. He glanced through the kitchen, down the short hallway toward Sherlock’s room.

“His bedroom’s locked,” John offered, clenching his hands together behind his back. “Or maybe you have a key to that, too?”

“No, no. Sorry, mate, didn’t mean to barge in on your. . .” Lestrade glanced at the television, which was tuned to something out of the Asian second world, grainy, background sets with obvious nail-holes visible, and a lot of shouting. “Night in,” he finished.

“S’all right,” John offered with a tight grin. “I’ll tell him. . .?”

“No. Nothing. I’ll just talk to him when he gets back.” Lestrade offered his hand for a shake. John nodded at him. Lestrade nodded back, turned, and left. John shut and locked the doors to the landing. He made a mental note to check with Sherlock about who else might arrive uninvited; it would be a shame for John to shoot someone, thinking the flat was being burgled.

Next morning, John was finishing his tea and toast standing over the sink like a proper bachelor when Sherlock swanned in dressed in a too-shiny shirt, less-shiny suit, and ludicrously shiny shoes, carrying nothing but a paperback book, which he threw down on the kitchen table.

“Boy George’s autobiography,” he said. “I don’t believe a word of it.”

Sherlock was toeing his shoes off. John eyed him up.

“Flew all night from Nigeria, did you.”

“That’s right.”

“Someone came looking for you last night.”

Sherlock looked mildly interested, scrolling the screen of his phone with one long thumb. “Mm. My brother, I assume.”

“He had a key?”

“Ah. DI Lestrade, then. Did he say--?”

John left his cup and plate on the countertop, moved to pick up his bag from the chair in the lounge.

“He just said he’d talk to you when you got back.”

Sherlock looked grim, hummed, began texting furiously.

“Work,” John half-explained, hefting his bag. “Imagine I’ll see you tonight?”

Sherlock, shoulders hunched, forehead creased, was already disappearing down the hallway toward his room. He continued texting with one thumb as he slid a key into the lock and turned it. “What’s that? Oh. Don’t know.” He shut the door.

That night. Warehouse. John kidded himself he wasn’t waiting for Sherlock to show up. By the time he did, John had already tapped out of a chokehold put on him by a 300-lb monster. John was seething. Not only had the fight not gone his way, it was over in just a couple of minutes. His adrenaline was surging, blinding, and the ants were on the march again under his skin. The light hurt his eyes; the cacophony of sound blurred to a constant, dull buzz in his head.

Sherlock got a fight with a first-timer, as was his preference. John shouldered his way to the front row of men around the ring, stood stock still with arms folded. Sherlock, barefoot, bare-chested, handed John his wristwatch and shot him a wink. John slipped the watch in his pocket, nodded tightly.

Sherlock was paired up with a kid so young he probably couldn’t even grow a beard. Someone in the crowd shouted, “Two prettyboys, innit?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the young lad, who adopted a pose of aggressive nonchalance.

“Won’t take a minute,” Sherlock offered casually, which elicited scattered laughter.

“Not what your mum said last night when I’s eating her out, mate,” the kid ventured. Theatrical expressions of shock from the crowd.

Sherlock turned away from the kid a bit, one hand on his hip, shaking his head. He started to laugh. And kept on laughing, and kept on shaking his head. “That’s—“ he started, then shook one finger at the kid, who was starting to look confused, but maintained his posture. “Very clever. Very clever comeback; you should be on television.”

Standing at the edge of the ring, John couldn’t help but smile, just a bit. He knew the look in Sherlock’s eyes, completely belied by his casual joking. John got ready to pull Sherlock off the kid, who he felt certain Sherlock had already determined the quickest and most efficient way to murder.

The ring man raised his hand. Sherlock went on laughing, turned his back and started to take a couple of steps away from the kid.

“Fight!”

The kid took one step forward; before his foot touched down, Sherlock had swept his legs out from under him, sending him to the floor, flat on his back. In an instant, Sherlock crashed down, kneeling on the kid’s chest sideways, and his raised right arm was like a piston as he reared it back, slammed it down, reared it back, jumped up off the kid back onto his feet. The kid was out cold. The fight was over.

Sherlock nodded for the whistles and cheers, the ring-man raised his hand above his head in victory. Sherlock stepped close to John as two men moved in to drag off the unconscious youth. “Doctor?” he said inquiringly, tilting his head toward the kid. John cast a sideways glance at the kid, shrugged.

“Not my problem.”

“I’ll take my watch back now.”

“Yeah, in a minute,” John said, and made his way back through the crush of bodies to the outer edge of the room. Sherlock followed, stopping momentarily to scoop up his shirt and shoes from the floor.

“Saw you were on the list,” Sherlock offered, buttoning his shirt. He sized John up. “You won it?”

John looked grim. “He was a fucking giant. I had to tap out.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Shame.”

“Fucking right,” John agreed. “And you wasted yours to prove a point.”

Sherlock finished tying his shoes, rose to stand. He shrugged. “Sometimes it’s about putting on a good show.”

John rolled his eyes at that. “Nah, you fucking wasted it.” John started toward the door.

“My watch?” Sherlock demanded, sounding irritated.

John stuck his hands in his pockets, shrugged. “Mine now. Unless you want to come get it.”

Sherlock went at him with a roundhouse punch, which John managed to block with his forearm. He jabbed at Sherlock’s face and his knuckles blazed with agony as he caught the corner of Sherlock’s jaw, just below his ear.

The man nearest the door, collecting the entry fees and passwords, jumped in to break them up. “You two, take it outside. You know the rules.” He jerked his head toward the door. John ducked out, rubbing his aching hand. Sherlock followed.

“It’s lucky you fuck so good, gorgeous,” John said through clenched teeth as they walked up the sidewalk, not exactly together. “Because you’re not exactly charming.”

“You moved into my flat,” Sherlock countered.

“Yeah, and what reason did I just give?” John huffed.

“Thought you might change your mind when I wasn’t there.”

“You flatter yourself. Despite being a biohazard, that flat’s worlds better than where I was before.” John realised he was suddenly talking to no one, stopped to look around.

Sherlock’s deep voice echoing from an alley they’d just passed. “Here.”

John doubled back and strode into the alley. A few yards in, it was suddenly much darker, where the glow of the streetlamps didn’t reach. There were a few windows much higher up, on the first and second storeys, not many lit given the late hour. John paused to let his eyes adjust.

Sherlock was on him in an instant, folding John’s arms behind him, pressing his face against a rough brick wall, leaning against John’s back with his mouth near John’s ear. John struggled, but Sherlock held fast, snaked his long hand into the hip pocket of John’s jeans to retrieve his wristwatch. He pocketed it and, in a ragged, sneering whisper against John’s ear, said, “Maybe you were right last time, when you said we must be in _love_.” The last word slid out of his mouth as if it were coated in slime. Sherlock slid the flat of his tongue up the side of John’s face; John squirmed but couldn’t free himself. “These lovely pet names and all. I’ll be gorgeous, and you’ll be—what?—my good boy?” He raked his upper teeth along John’s jaw, pressed hard against his throat until John whined at the pain. “Do as you’re told? Follow orders. Like a good soldier.”

“Fuck you,” John snarled.

“Yes, please,” Sherlock replied instantly, grinding his pelvis against John’s ass. “But you’re going to have to _make_ me.”

Sherlock stepped back, yanking John backward by the shoulders and stepping around in front of him.

“Fucking love to,” John seethed, and punched Sherlock in the side of the chest; Sherlock held his ground, didn’t stumble. John threw another punch and Sherlock blocked it, sliding his hand past John’s fist and landing a blow with the heel of his hand against John’s throat that sent him reeling, three big steps backward, and a metal bin-lid crashed to the ground with a clatter as John caught himself. He growled and threw himself at the shadowy silhouette of Sherlock, trapping his arms by his sides as he took him down to the ground.

John pinned one of Sherlock’s shoulders with his outstretched arm, reached down between their bodies to open the fly of his jeans. “I’ll _make_ you wrap your pretty mouth around my prick,” John panted. Sherlock swung with his free arm, landed a punch below John’s eye. John had to shake his head to clear it, and Sherlock took advantage, knocked him off balance with a jab to the ribs. John fell to the side, and they both struggled to their feet.

“No one wins until someone’s bleeding,” Sherlock muttered.

“I can make you bleed after you suck me off, if you like,” John replied darkly. “Or during.”

Sherlock kicked John just below his knee. John howled, lurched forward, grabbed Sherlock’s shirtfront in both fists and butted his forehead into Sherlock’s face with a heavy grunt, then drew back, blinking hard. Sherlock’s face—heart-shaped, luminescent mother-of-pearl in the shadows—was streaked from his nostrils to his chin with red-black blood.

“Happy now?” John demanded. He rubbed his forehead.

Sherlock dragged the fingers of both hands down his face, wiped the blood on the bricks.

“You know I am,” he intoned. “But I could be happier. Be a good boy and bend over.” Sherlock’s hand was at his own waist, unfastening his trousers.

John lurched forward, pinned Sherlock’s back against the wall, chest to chest. John slapped Sherlock’s hand away to finish what Sherlock had started, then thrust his hand in and found Sherlock’s cock already oozing pre-cum. John slicked his palm with it and began roughly to slide his palm down from the crown to the base, each quick stroke followed by a pause just long enough to frustrate Sherlock before John stroked again. John nosed aside the collar of Sherlock’s shirt and bit down hard at the juncture of Sherlock’s neck and shoulder, making Sherlock groan.

John kept up the slow march of jerking Sherlock’s prick, and Sherlock gulped air, heaving in time. John grasped Sherlock’s wrist with his free hand, squeezing so hard he felt bones grinding. Bony fingers found the back of John’s neck, dug in painfully, pulling John’s face closer to Sherlock’s throat. John dug in his teeth, pressed hard.

The pitch of Sherlock’s voice changed, upward-sliding whines on every breath, and his hips hitched against John’s hand.

“You’re close, gorgeous,” John muttered against Sherlock’s neck just below his ear. “I know you’re so close.” Sherlock gasped through a dry throat, nodded his surrender.

John could feel Sherlock’s cock swelling in his hand, and suddenly he withdrew, pinning both Sherlock’s wrists to the wall, shifting his body so Sherlock couldn’t get friction. Sherlock let out a cry of dismay followed immediately by a furious growl.

“Not yet, gorgeous,” John scolded, his gaze raking over the planes and angles of Sherlock’s face, now shimmering with perspiration and streaked with blood that still trickled from both nostrils. “I have something I want to give you first.”

Sherlock spat blood onto John’s cheek and the corner of his mouth; John’s tongue darted out to taste it. “I promise it’s something you like.”

Sherlock’s wrists flexed and twisted in John’s grip but he held them fast.

“You’re going to kneel there,” John motioned with a tilt of his head. “And I’m going to stand up here. Right about where you are, actually.” John leaned his body against Sherlock’s momentarily and Sherlock rutted against him, grunting with each thrust of his hips. John grinned, shifted away again. “Ah-ah,” he scolded. “I said not yet. You’re going to kneel there and wrap that pretty, filthy mouth around my big cock. And I’m going to fuck your face until I come.”

Sherlock whimpered, then regained himself and snarled, “The hell I am.”

“You want to.”

“Fuck off.”

“You’re dying to. Look at you.” John raked his gaze down Sherlock’s front, his erection bobbing beneath the hem of his shirt; his trousers had slipped down around his knees. “You got harder just thinking about sucking me. Come on, gorgeous. . .” John faux-pleaded, “I want to see the tears in your eyes when I shove my cock down your throat.”

Sherlock made one last effort to free his hands. John shook his head. He tilted his face up to drone quietly into Sherlock’s ear, “I’m going to fuck your gorgeous, bleeding face, and you’re going to swallow my cum, and then— _then_ —I’m going to finish jerking you off, and you’re going to come so hard I’ll have to carry you home.”

Sherlock’s body thrummed with tension as John talked.

“I think we understand each other, now.”

“Fuck you,” Sherlock spat.

“Kneel down, now, gorgeous.” John released Sherlock’s wrists and Sherlock took a wild swing John easily knocked aside. “Fight’s over. Now we’re fucking.” He pushed on Sherlock’s shoulders and Sherlock let himself fold down onto his knees, sitting back on his heels. John’s jeans were partway open already; he finished the job and freed his cock and balls, stroking one hand lazily along the heavy length. Sherlock reached for his own prick, started to pull. “No,” John barked out, and stomped on Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock growled a protest, but moved his hand away. John leaned back against the wall, looked down at Sherlock’s dim-lit form below him. He reached one hand behind the base of Sherlock’s skull, wound his fingers round with Sherlock’s hair and tilted his head back until his mouth came open. Sherlock ran his wet tongue around his lips. With his other hand, John guided his cock to Sherlock’s mouth and pushed his hips forward. Sherlock steadied himself with a hand on each of John’s thighs.

Sherlock struggled to keep up with John’s movements, stretching his mouth wide, minding his teeth, opening his throat. John thrust in relentlessly, humming in time with his movements. Sherlock groaned around John’s cock, shifted his knees a bit, seeking an angle that gave him some relief.

“Christ, your mouth is hot,” John gasped out, and moved his hand from the back of Sherlock’s head to grasp his chin, pulling Sherlock to him as he thrust in. Sherlock struggled, pulled away, gasping. “If you want me to make you come you’d better get back to it,” John threatened. He nudged Sherlock’s knee with his foot. Sherlock got control of his breath, wrapped his long fingers around the base of John’s cock and slid his mouth down on him, moaning and humming all the while, making John curse and catch his breath.

John’s voice, full of gravel, demanded, “Look at me, gorgeous.” Sherlock tilted his face upward and to the side, opened his eyes to meet John’s gaze. In the quarter-light his eyes were glittery glass marbles in dark, hollow sockets, but John could make out the shimmering trails of tears from the corners. Sherlock pulled back, sucked air, stretched his tongue to stroke down John’s length, then up the other side and around the crown. He moved his hands to John’s hips, opened his throat, and John began to thrust hard into his mouth, grunting with the effort, Sherlock digging his fingers into John’s flesh and urging him along.

Sherlock’s long-fingered hand cupped around John’s balls, and that set him off; John groaned like he was dying and he grabbed a handful of Sherlock’s hair in his fist. His knees weakened and he steadied himself with his other hand against the edge of a nearby skip. Sherlock struggled to swallow John’s jetting cum, in the end had to draw back a bit so the last of it spurted onto his cheek and jaw. His nimble tongue traced the head of John’s cock, lapping up the last of it.

John yanked hard on Sherlock’s hair, urging him to his feet.

“Well done, you,” John muttered darkly. “Up, now; you’ve earned it.”

The blood from his nose was now drying and cracking on Sherlock’s upper lip. He dragged one long palm across the bottom half of his face, wiping away John’s cum and his own blood. John released his grip on Sherlock’s hair and their eyes met; neither gaze was tender. Sherlock inhaled hard and long, grabbed John’s wrist and lifted his palm toward his mouth; he spit a sludgy mix of saliva, semen, and blood into John’s hand, then thrust it downward until John’s fingers wrapped around his cock and started to pull.

They leaned together, chest to chest, and Sherlock’s eyes flew open as if he were startled, and he moaned heavily into John’s hair, his weight sinking onto John’s shoulder. John worked Sherlock’s cock in quick, hard strokes, reached his other hand around to clasp Sherlock’s backside, kneading the flesh and muscle, digging and scraping with his fingernails until Sherlock started to whine, his hips bucking forward away from John’s grasp, which pressed him more insistently against John’s slippery, sliding palm. Sherlock’s cock ached, throbbed, dripped fluid from the slit, and it was no time at all before he was shuddering, gulping, his cum spurting between them, landing in viscous trails on thighs, hands, bellies, rough thatches of hair.

John wiped his hand on the tail of Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock braced himself with one palm against the wall, breath heaving, pulling himself together.

John quickly rearranged his clothes, cleared his throat. He leaned his face close to Sherlock’s, gripped the back of Sherlock’s neck and held him fast.

“Listen, you. I don’t think you’re clever. I think you’re a posh, know-it-all asshole. I’ll fight you. I’ll fuck you. But I’m not interested in whatever bullshit fucking games you think you’re playing.” John shook his fist near Sherlock’s face. “Fucking Nigeria.  You can fuck right off with that.”

He shoved Sherlock’s neck as he released it, turned on his heel, and started to stride away.

“See you at home, then, Dear!” Sherlock called after him. “Warm up my side of the bed, will you?” Sherlock spat on the ground, pulled up his trousers.

He figured this one for a draw.

 

-END-

 

**Author's Note:**

> I see now where this series is headed, and it only gets darker from here. They are not going to fall in love. They are not going to stop beating the tar out of each other. You have been warned.
> 
> fuckyeahfightlock.tumblr.com for fight-y goodness and related bloodsport.  
> PoppyAlexander-fic.tumblr.com for other fic updates and things that catch my fancy.


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